


Craven diaries

by hauntedpoem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood Purity Discrimination, Corporal Punishment, Creature Mistreatment, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gellert Grindelwald propaganda, Gen, House Elves, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Intrigues and Plots, Malfoy-centric, Mudblood Insults, POV First Person, Pre-Hogwarts Lucius Malfoy, Pureblood Politics, Reflections on the Malfoy line, Voldemort beginnings, pre-Death Eaters, young Lucius Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Lucius Malfoy writes his own history, page by page.





	1. May, 1965, Wiltshire

**Author's Note:**

> I love the Malfoys. Shoot me.  
> I wrote this on the spur of the moment. If the muse is so kind as to visit me soon, then I'll continue.  
> For now, this remains just an exercise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I did not reveal too much about the subject of this work but hopefully, you will be here with me for the long ride.  
> These having been said, please, enjoy your reading!  
> *also, check the end notes for each chapter

Father is a demon. At least in name, one would say... but I know better.

Mother allows him his little annoying quirks and his not so little indiscretions. No, not that kind of indiscretions! Because father loves mother and mother loves father. That goes without saying. If it's something I know for sure is that they take their vows seriously. And father is loyal and is conscientious, although not politically. The papers could write all they want, for all I care. Father only laughs and sometimes mother chides him about being unreasonable, so I have certainty that everything will be alright.

So what if he wants the minister gone? He's a mudblood, that's reason enough, father says. Mother always tuts and huffs when he starts his political babbling but father smiles and waits for her to finish and then he explains everything he's saying so I can understand. Sometimes he talks in subtleties and sometimes he's direct and I don't always like his lessons.

He takes me to his study and gives these endless monologues on blood purity and makes me read all these books I don't really understand. Why should we care about muggles as long as they have no idea who we are? The Statute of Secrecy says enough: we live and let live as long as the muggles don't pose any threat us. Or something along those lines. I don't care much about muggles.The muggle-born, however, are different. They breach into our world and then the muggles associated with them get to know about us.

Father says there are abominations that threaten the very structure of our world, that each time muggleborn steps into our world, they take our resources, they thin our blood and corrupt our magic. I have never met a muggle-born but father insists they should be taxed for even stepping foot on Diagon Alley. Sometimes he asks me questions about choices and morals and yells if I give the wrong answers which I try not to do too often. He won't be too happy if I don't get everything right. I'd like to think that I understand everything he says but then mother clanks her cup on the tea tray and looks at father as if she would prepare for a Legilimency session. And the funny thing is that father stutters and starts complaining about the quality of the tea leaves which quickly degenerates into a ministry bashing.

Mother doesn't stop him.

She just continues to drink her tea and levitates the sugar cubes towards father who, I can tell, oscillates between tumbling them all in his cup and throwing them on the floor. But that would upset mother so he stops in time. And they are perfectly all right, the tea leaves - I know good tea when I see it. Usually, mother leaves him to his own devices and sends the house elves for me so she can retire to her suite. It's almost the end of June now and I know that my Hogwarts letter will arrive soon. Bonny helps me remove my robes and sets them neatly on a padded coat hanger that mother transfigured for me because the metal ones looked dreary in my closet. That's what she said.

I sit on my back on the bed and I eat cherries. If I stop breathing and chewing, I can hear mother cry in the nearby room. She always does that but whenever I mention it in the morning, she changes the subject and gives me sweets. I wait and I hear father's footsteps.

He always slams the door.

Bonny Apparates into my room with a loud enough 'pop' to wake new from my reverie and then takes me to the greenhouse for a practical lesson. When I ask her about my parents, she changes the subject with a lack of finesse and fear is showing in the trembling of her brow. I'm almost eleven, not five. I know what happens around me, I see it, I can hear it, even though a wretched house-elf is incapable of telling me directly. The only problem is that I don't know the reason for it. Father mutters and curses there, in the room with her. Sometimes I fear he hurts her but I'm not sure. Father loves mother. He always takes her hand in his and kisses her palm and gives her this look, as if he's half in pain, half overjoyed. He looks funny and never does that in public. He once caught me spying on them and took prompt action. His stinging hexes used to hurt for hours. Mother usually says she's disappointed, then father starts talking in that harsh manner of his.

At times, I could hear mother laugh and father sing. I cannot discern what they are saying anyway. Their rooms are warded. There are moments when I wish I were five again so I could convince them to let me sleep there on the bed with them. Father would snort and complain that there was no space for snotty, cowardly crybabies and mother would always say that he could cast an extension charm to the bed or he could sleep on the sofa in the antechamber. It always struck me as odd the expression father would make then. He almost looked... jilted.

But those times were rare.

I remember I had quite a fever once and mother was fairly agitated, on the verge of flooing urgently to St. Mungo's but father talked her out of it, gave her a calming drought and took the job of caring for me, casting temperature regulating charms and forcing vile tasting potions down my throat. I don't think it was anything as innocuous as Pepper-up potion. I would make a face of disgust and then, to my chagrin, my father would put his tongue out in a simulation of a 'bleurgh' and dare me to throw up. I don't give in to the urge of throwing up because I, unlike other children, am able to recognise a challenge.

However, most of those nights when I was too scared of the dark to go to sleep, father would not be so kind as to open the door and he wouldn't let mother open it either. "He'll never grow out of it if we don't stop," he told her.

Later, he would assign Bonny to me and supply a cabinet in my room with all the necessary potions.

Up until I grew to be seven, mother would come to my room and brush my hair and tell me all sorts of nice things and plan the day ahead for us. She hasn't done that in a long time, though. Father assigned tutors to me and once a week, for a couple of hours, he would take special interest in my education, telling me about all sorts of things and always reminding me that I was a pureblood and that if I was incapable of bringing honor to the Malfoy name, at least I should refrain from tarnishing it.

On Sundays, my parents would entertain visitors and quite often they would host the Yule ball here at the Manor. I used to sneak Cissy into the greenhouse with a plate of chocolate truffles and delicacies and we would annoy mother's snapping geraniums and tease the swishing cattails into making a tremendous noise. That continued until Mrs. Druella Black took her away and gave her an hour's length lecture about manners and how young ladies should behave in the company of a young man- that would be me. For Narcissa's sake, I hope she exaggerates.

If I am to be sorted into any other house than Slytherin, I just know father wouldn't be pleased. Both my parents were in Slytherin and so were their parents before them. I know that father met mother at Hogwarts and said that I will meet my future betrothed there as well. If I didn't know better, I would say that Hogwarts is no better than father's club, a place to meet future supporters and to make advantageous alliances, not a school of witchcraft and wizardry. On my part, I think I have taken care of the 'advantageous alliances' part. I already know who my betrothed will be, even though the Blacks and my parents have never mentioned it. At least not expressly or formally. I'm sure Cissy knows it as well so it's useless to talk about it, we practically grew together. I know her, I know what she's like and we get along perfectly well with each other.

I wait as patiently as possible for my Hogwarts letter and mother tries to assure me that every eleven years old receives one by the end of summer. I am still very nervous.

Father started using his cane to remind me that I should not bother mother by clinging to her robes like a pathetic Niffler. At least he didn't call me a sticky Murtlap this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I speculate a lot about the Malfoys.  
> First of all, they are a very old pure-blood family. Perhaps ancient. In order to perpetuate their name and their genes, they had to produce male heirs.  
> I imagine that the ancient wizarding world had its share of problems. Discrimination tied to blood purity reminds us of the racial discrimination of the non-magical society.  
> It is unknown whether there was a huge discrepancy in gender equality. The fact that two of the Hogwarts founders were women makes me think that witches were treated better than muggle women.  
> Back to the Malfoys, it is clear that their name resisted through the ages solely because of male heirs. In the past, names were carried on usually by males. This is something I am determined to further reflect upon in future chapters.  
> As the Blacks had a penchant for giving their progeny names inspired by celestial objects (stars and constellations) such as Orion, Andromeda, Bellatrix, Sirius or Draco, the Malfoys also bestowed upon their heirs meaningful names.  
> It is known that Armand Malfoy was the first Malfoy on British land, arriving with the Norman invasion in the 11th century. I'd like to think that the Malfoys are French with roots as far back as the Roman Empire.  
> The Malfoy penchant for using cunning plots and their influence to mould the socio-political scene to their liking is reflective of the meaning of their family name: "mal foi", translated to "bad faith". Which I find pretty funny because they are exactly that.  
> Back on the Roman Empire, there was a scheming Roman Senator named Lucius (Sergius Catilina (Catiline). He is known for the Catiline conspiracy, a plot attempting to overthrow the Roman Republic. This is pretty much what the Malfoys seem to do in the wizarding world: plot, plot and then plot some more, in order to materialise their political ideals (whatever they may be). I like to think that Catiline is one of their ancestors. Pottermore and HP wiki speculate that one of the ancestors might be the Roman dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla. However, I am inclined to believe that the Malfoys never intended to actually grasp power for themselves but preferred to influence the world around them and work behind the scenes.  
> They were intelligent conspirators, councillors and advocates for causes that suited their needs but they were not rulers and leaders. This can be seen in all Malfoy men: brilliant and tarnished by their attraction to the Dark Arts, excellent at influencing the world around them but unwilling to actually do the work necessary for leadership. Attracted to power, they seem forever suited for the role of "unfaithful" right-hands and misguiding councillors, loyal only to their whims and having no real allegiance.  
> Back to names, I'd like to point out that [ Abraxas ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/01/1a/5c/011a5c3e26b960582a7a4da54a04670b.jpg) is a very special one, a word of mystic meaning mentioned in Gnostic texts and going back to the Ancient Egyptian mythology as a god or demon. The seven letters spelling its name may represent each of the seven classic planets.The word may be related to Abracadabra, although other explanations exist.  
> In Herman Hesse's Demian, Abraxas appears as a heavily referenced symbol, running under the theme of creation.


	2. June, 1965, Wiltshire

Three more days until my birthday and I can barely contain my excitement. It irks me that father is away on business again. Mother is too preoccupied with her social activities to spend the evening with me. 

She invited Mrs. Rosier and the Blacks for tea. Walburga Black is positively frightening and I think she hates children just as much as she hates sunlight. Always dressed in black, I spot her downstairs and it's enough to plead with Bonny to Apparate with me to the Greenhouse. I swear that with the amount of Herbology and Potions lessons I take at home, I shall die of boredom when I get to attend Hogwarts.

Bonny, wearing a pink tea towel on her head and a frilly pink dress she had since the beginning of her service, just escorts me to my lessons. I always wondered about the house elves but father says it's their nature to be subservient and that I should never give them clothes. However, this is no excuse for her appalling attire which is getting old. I once wanted to give her something and mother told me I have offended the house elf. But that is not exactly true, is it? Bonny continued to hit herself with a spatula for an hour straight and I learned to keep my ideas to myself.

I don't understand house elves at all and father just insisted that they are as unimportant as muggles. In other words, I should dedicate myself to the study of Herbology, Potions and Theoretical Charms and Transfigurations and forget about house elves' history until I'll have the misfortune to end up in professor Binns' history classes.

I have ten hours of individual study every week. I just read every book my private tutor and usually, my father throw at me and then I write essays. It's boring and I wish my letter would come sooner so I would get my own wand. It would be comforting to have a proper wand, something that wants me, _Lucius Malfoy_ , of all people. Reading about Charms and Transfigurations and not having a chance to practice with a real wand is misery. Sometimes I ask mother to allow me to hold her wand, just to get a feel of it but father ordered a children's wand for me. No actual power but still... Better than a stick.

Father always asks me to recite potions ingredients before dinner. I guess it amuses him greatly when I stutter some Latin words. I sometimes struggle with Latin pronunciation. I do it all the time when I'm nervous, my voice wobbly and extremely young in my ears. When will it sound like father's?

Later that day, I practice wand movements and sometimes mother corrects me. She's gentle and encouraging. I ask her for her wand because it would make the flickering movements of a levitation spell easier. She smiles and says children are not allowed with a wand before the age of 11 but lets me hold hers and it's nice and friendly in my hands. Acacia wood, 9 and 1/4 inches, swishy, with a unicorn hair.

Father never lets me touch his wand, though. He keeps it tucked in the cane, it's like a sword in its scabbard. He says it is a family heirloom and I'll have it once I'm of age, accomplishing great, memorable things. His wand at Hogwarts was a 14-inch aspen wood, dragon heartstrings core, unyielding. It lies hidden in a drawer in his study. Sometimes, I know he uses it to summon books in the library. They always fly right at me if I happen to be in their way.

He says the elm wand belonged to his grandfather: dragon heartstrings, long, dark, rigid. He lets me see it and I must have asked him this too many times- 'How did they manage to tuck the heartstrings of a dragon in that narrow piece of wood?' I really want to know, I tell him. I can imagine how a unicorn's hair would fit in, probably inserted through a small hole in the centre of the wand. Dragon heartstrings are another thing altogether. The Malfoy wand has the heartstrings of a Hungarian Horntail dragon, father reminds me and my mind goes back to my magical beasts encyclopaedia. It is the most feared of them all: huge, rough and angry looking.

Father loves dragons. He's invested some money in their protection. Says they are most noble creatures. But again, I ask the damned question and mother laughs as if I'm being comical.

"Oh there he is again, your little curious son!" She says it as if father's responsible for that and he looks at me and says I should ask Mr. Ollivander, the wandmaker, because tomorrow I'll see him.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I wish I were overjoyed but the day is not over yet.

Mother smiles knowingly and reassuringly at me. Her hair is pale chestnut, unlike my father's. I have my father's hair and eyes. I have my mother's good features and flawless posture. Father is proud of that. Everybody knows he is one of the most handsome wizards in Britain. Merlin forbid I marry some, unfortunately, ugly girl. Father would have a fit. He remarks that my son will have my hair and eyes. Says it's how Malfoys end up, after all. 

I ask about wands and how they end up paired with wizards. Father seems annoyed by my questions, deems them useless and completely ignores me until he finishes breakfast. To appease him, mother gives him scones shining with butter and looks at him like he's a crup puppy. I don't understand why mother always ignores me and looks at father instead. If this is how married couples look after twenty years of marriage then I am not very sure about it. All smitten, blind to the world. 

At eleven o'clock, father and mother call me in the study. He sits in his chair, mother behind him, hands in his hair. I give him a look. He smirks.

"Don't be jealous. How _bourgeois_ of you!"

Meaning, it's beneath my station. I straighten up and I look at mother. _You traitor!_ I never say it aloud. Thinking it is enough.Father opens the drawer and hands me a heavy looking letter, creamy parchment and a red seal. My heart hums with trepidation. Is this it?

"This morning, an owl came with this," he says all deign and benevolent. "Why don't you open it, son?"

With trembling fingers, I break the seal in two perfect halves and the Hogwarts insignia is fractured between the houses. It's addressed to _Lucius Abraxas Malfoy_. Malfoy residence, Wiltshire.

Mother starts braiding father's hair now. "Come and open your letter, darling!" The words are drawled, oh how I love mother's exquisite accent! Father sighs at her touch and relaxes a bit, shoulders sagging, fingers catching on the lapels of her dress, smoothing it out.

" _Eugenie_ , stop it!" He bats at her hands.

Oh how I wish they'd stop that. How annoying! I clear my throat and extract the parchment. Slanted letters welcome me. I will never forget this moment. _"We are pleased to announce you that..."_

Mother kisses me on both cheeks and father motions for me to get closer. He tips my chin as if inspecting me like a mediwizard, probably wanting to make sure I am indeed his son. 

"Don't be so hasty, like a crazed Niffler!"

If course I'm hasty, time flies so fast when you're eleven. Mother made crepes. Father eats them ostentatiously. I sit between them at the round table, trying not to choke on my porridge.

I have practically memorised the contents of my letter. First, we shall buy the books. Father will carry them, of course, in a display of fatherly affection. Then, mother will take me to my fittings and she will disappear with father for a while, without a doubt to buy me the actual presents. He knows I want a broom. I am not getting another pewter cauldron, no matter how many dragons it has on it! And no more theory books! I'm sick of books. Just yesterday father called me into his study to read aloud my charms essay. To top it all, he also fire called for mother in her suite to come and listen to what I wrote on levitation charms. He also mentioned she'll have a laugh. Mother, being the traitor she is, came immediately, plopped in my father's lap, he sighed, said she was too heavy and she pulled at his hair. My parents are awful.

I hope my father lost blood circulation in his legs. 

Mother was searching through one of the cabinets and father let out an undignified _oomph_ and snorted. Now I know what father keeps hidden in there. An expensive decanter of cognac along with crystal glasses. She poured him a drink and he poured one for her in return. Quite mischievously, they started commenting on my charms essay but I kept my face a mask of composure and denied then the satisfaction seeing me flustered. Besides, I had other thoughts to preoccupy myself with. She was laughing through the whole ordeal and my mind kept flying to my letter.

Diagon Alley was not as crowded that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with a bit of wandlore.  
> Mrs. Malfoy's wand is Acacia- uncommon wand wood that is defined by its attachment to the owner, sensitive to their magic signature although it's quite a temperamental wand.  
> Mr. Malfoy's first wand at Hogwarts is Aspen, which is a striking white and fine grained wood, excellent for duelling. Their owners are obstinate, determined and a bit forceful. This is exactly how I imagine Abraxas Malfoy to be: a competent man with a persuasive streak and an inclination for political intrigue.  
> I think that it is necessary to point out that the notorious elm wand that appears in the movies is a family heirloom passed on for generations in the Malfoy family. It is only natural that the young Malfoys had bought their wands from either Ollivander or Gregorovitch or another well-established wand maker until they could inherit the snake handled cane from their fathers.  
> In wandlore it is known that the elm wood is associated with nobility and blood purity. It must have been a coveted wood for wands, however, we all know that in the Potter universe, the wand chooses her owner. Ollivander describes elm wands as producing the most consistent, congruous magic, with very few errors and extremely elegant spellwork. They search for owners "with presence, magical dexterity and a certain native dignity".  
> I drew the conclusion that the Malfoy men look up to that certain ancestor who was the first owner of the elm wand. Perhaps the earlier generations weren't always concerned with seeking to prove their superiority by way of blood purity. That, in my opinion, is a skewed, discriminatory and maladapted view of the world around them. However, the Malfoys were a scheming bunch. Through heavy political intrigues, business savoir-faire and a tendency to abuse and control the environment, they proved a force to be reckoned with in the wizarding world. The Malfoys were not cowering Pettigrews, and they were not fanatical Blacks. They were arrogant, competent on the political scene and held a lot of monetary influence. The Malfoys were Machiavellian and had a credo, one that maybe lost its true meanings as time went by, which can explain their fascination with the Dark Arts and blood purity.


	3. Flourish & Blotts

Father Apparated us directly into Gringotts. From one of their majestic crystal windows, I could see the narrow passages of Diagon Alley, swarming with witches and wizards. 

"We're in luck today,"says Mother."It's less crowded than on weekends."

Father says that on weekends, most ministry workers are free and they come here to spend all their sorry money. It makes Mother laugh. Father is in a good mood, he holds her by the waist and after he pushes me with a "Go ahead, son," I hear mother gasping in a shocked manner. I turn around and I see father kissing her neck.

All this while a couple of goblins are watching us. I shudder. Somehow, I never liked those creatures. House-elves I can understand, I am used to Bonny and Trilby and Dippy and Mumsy. And grandma's personal house-elf is probably the most bearable of them all and Mother says that one of its offsprings will be in my service one day.

I reach for the door and call for my mother, a bit overwhelmed by the goblins who now approach me with their short legs.

"Mr Malfoy? The chief financial counselor wants a word with you." From up-close, it's a most repellent creature.

He is shorter than me by a few inches but somehow, I cannot help but recoil in fear as it turns to look at me with beady, black eyes.

"This is your heir, I presume?"

Perhaps I made a most undignified sound because Father is calling up to me in his stern voice.

"Lucius!"

His eyes are as cold as ice, penetrating and I turn, blushing, and exit Gringtts.

I feel the goblin's eyes on me and the mere knowledge of it makes me feel uncomfortable.

I retreat into Flourish and Blotts and wait for my parents there on the stairs. We have a good library at the manor. I couldn't possibly desire anything else because Father has a box of new books in every month or so. They're mostly from Obscurus or Pendragon and yearly, mother's sister, Genevieve, sends us the best issues of 'Potions' from Paris along with 'La sorciere' which mother loves to pretend reading only to ignore father when he's in a dark mood. 

I just found a book on dragons whose illustrations are extremely detailed and it costs a small fortune, almost as much as a Vega broom. Somehow, I have to convince mother to convince father that I absolutely need that broom if I am to play quidditch at Hogwarts.

I find the whole Hogwarts first year package containing a bonus of the latest edition of 'Hogwarts a history'. I wonder what else did they add. We have no less than ten editions at the manor and I doubt father's going to be pleased with another one but it's already included so I secure the package by simply sitting on it.

Now how in Merlin's name will I be able to have this book? The entire book of dragons is a heavy, dragon skin tome that costs as much as two Hogwarts packages.

I look around me. There is no one, the clerk is busy taking his mouth off to some old witch. There are two older kids in the opposite direction, leafing through quidditch players posters. Children with their parents downstairs, noise and movement.

Then, I decide to do the impossible. I search the Hungarian Horntail section and rip it as gently as possible. Then the Chinese Fireball, then the Norwegian Ridgeback. With utmost calm, I neatly fold  the dozen or so pages and secure them into my waistcoat and then I arrange my robes.

I surprise myself. I feel utter calm. Nothing's changed. No head turned. The book didn't scream, didn't protest. I am slightly dejected that for such a pricey collection book didn't have a security spell on it. 

I see father's hat when he enters the store and I straighten myself. He silently summons the package and the clerk smiles nervously at him.

"A Hogwarts starters package?" Father nods and says nothing.

"Are you sure, sir?" He asks uselessly but I freeze. He wouldn't know... Father gives him a look as if he's nothing but scum, for some reason. "That would be all," father pays and shrinks the package with a focused frown. In my childish fear, I grab on the lapels of his cloak and urge him out of the shop.

I must look really scared because, for once, father's heavy hand lies protectively on the nape of my neck.

"Go to your mother now, she waits for you at Malkin's." His tone is dry, dismissive. "I have an urgent matter to attend to at the ministry." 

When I follow him to the corner, he pauses, pets my head and says almost absent mindedly.

"I hope the new Vega model will make up for my absence today." He smiles and now I register how deathly pale my father looks. Only his scintillating grey eyes are alive and the subtle movement of his lips and eyebrows. Are all Malfoys cursed with such stillness?

"Will you be at Ollivander's, father?"

My voice is deplorably hopeful and I sound like a confused seven year old. Of course, father has no time for that, I chastise myself.

"If it so pleases you, I'll be there, Lu." I always melt when he calls me that. Pet names are too endearing for a place like this. He's never called me that since I was a boy of five. It was either a stern 'son' or simply 'Lucius'.

His answer is curt, in a way... Reassuring. "I might have another birthday present for you." He looks pensive and then disapparates, leaving me alone in the street.

I feel... Abandoned. I don't like it. Now I notice the young clerk peering at me curiously from behind his cluttered desk. He watches me watching him and then does something utterly disgusting with his too wide mouth.

I cringe. It must have showed on my face. My weakness, my dishonest deed. But he can't know what I did with the book. I give him a withering look and he loses his self-assured mask. Father was right. Some people are scum.

I head for Madam Malkin's robes shop with hurried steps. I can't help but shudder. Somehow, my traitorous mind supplies me with images of the clerk. He looked as if he knew of my secret. It makes me feel dirty.

 


	4. Ollivander’s & dinner at the manor, June 1965

I stare at my dinner as if expecting it to transform into something else. Peas and carrots and little potatoes stare right back at me in the reddish tomato stew. I blow into my spoon before putting the contents into my mouth.

The table’s silent. My parents eat quietly and Mimpsy, my mother’s personal elf just exited with a tray of letters, invitations to a soiree to celebrate my Hogwarts admission and my birthday. At least the soup necessitated a certain dedication on my part, as I had to stare into my bowl without facing anyone else or risk making a mess.

I don’t know why I’m not happy. There’s something about father that doesn’t sit well with me. Grandfather congratulated me curtly but did not smile at all, which made me feel small and insignificant. Later I was to find out that he apparated in for something else entirely. They closed the door and warded it, perhaps to discuss politics and when I tried to eavesdrop, which, by the way, I rarely do, and all I could hear was someone shouting at my father.

 All I want to focus on is my dragon book and the cauldrons and rows of ingredients we bought. And my black school uniform with its pointy hat and long, embroidered lapels.

 Well, I was happy before mother and I got home. When we entered that small, dingy shop, I could feel the excitement creeping into my bones.

Mother was elated, she smiled at Mr. Ollivander who did not fail to greet her and remind her that she too had bought her wand from his shop when she was eleven.

I have tried a lot of wands. At first, Mr. Ollivander summoned a row of elm woods but none, not even the 7 inch kneazle hair crooked one wanted me.

Then he brought in the ebony, which threatened to spark but instead fumed as if I angered it, then the good old English oak but nothing. By the time I had tried, probably, a twentieth wand, the door to the shop opened and a tall woman accompanied by a dark skinned boy entered the shop.

The boy wore the strangest clothes I have ever seen: a pair of flared blue trousers with floral embroidery and a violet tunic with tassels and on the head, a purple fez. The woman had many multicoloured bracelets and her hair was cropped yet has been lightened to a caramel shade. She was wearing a royal blue tunic that sparkled in the light and a pair of silk ochre trousers and she too wore sandals.

Before I could remember to sniff in distaste at the muggle display of clothes, Mr. Ollivander smiled and welcomed the tall woman and her son.

They were called the Schacklebolts and have come all the way from Morocco, with two portkey stations and by the end of the day were bound to be in India, Mumbai at a wizarding fair.

To my surprise, several rows filled with boxes containing wands started vibrating, sign that they already anticipated becoming paired with Kingsley, because that was his name. Mother was pretending to look at oils for wand keeping but I stared blatantly at a black velvet box flew right above Mr. Ollivander’s head, practically ripped itself in mid-air and an impressively sculpted wand flew directly into the boy’s hands.

“Excellent!” Exclaimed Mr. Ollivander. “Thunderbird feather, laurel, 14 inches, flexible. You have yourself a very loyal and unique wand, young Mr. Shacklebolt, may you take good care of it. Thirty galleons.”

I was impressed. In less than five minutes, the boy came into the shop and left with a wand that flew straight into his hand, and an expensive one at that.

I was jealous, watching how my own mother waved goodbye at the tall woman. I hoped for a wand. I focused on getting one. Even spruce and batwing would do. Even five inches of lowly reed. Anything.

Mr. Ollivander exhaled, pleased with the sum he was now writing into his ledger. Without even looking at me, he turned his back and said. “I think we should continue our search, Mr. Malfoy.”

As any pureblood, I expected elmwood but I got a wand made of fir, slightly flexible, 11 inches, dragon heartstrings. Mother was actually quite pleased to chat with Mr. Ollivander about how his great grandfather Gerbold Octavius, considered fir to be a wood of exceptional valor, resilient and true to its owner.

When I touched it, it felt warm into my hand. I liked my wand and she liked me back. I was relieved.

So was my mother.

Only Mr. Ollivander seemed to have about himself the same dreamy expression that bordered on weary.


	5. July, 1965

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will review this chapter later. Until then, all mistakes are mine.  
> Enjoy!

He is not impressed. I can feel it. And he didn’t come to meet mother and I for the wand. He said he was busy and had important things to do. I know- and I would be a fool if I believed otherwise- that father does not consider me a priority in his life.

Mother tries to appear calm but I know she can feel it as well.

I am congratulated, again, by my father, who now is sipping scotch and perusing the evening paper, and then I am sent to my room without as much as a kiss on the forehead.

I notice the bold stacks of books, the new set of robes, the dark pairs of trousers and the rows of white shirts we’re expected to have as new Hogwarts students. My wand rests in a green velvet case and I avoid it for a while.

Here it is, new set of cauldrons with glass stirring rods and a set of new and first class ingredients. Anyone would be envious of my supplies. I intend to put everything in my new trunk which has been spelled to organize itself and never crumple anything I may place in it. Bonny apparates with a glass of hot milk and a plate of almond biscuits and I can see she is excited at the new display. Her ears quiver as she sniffs at my new robes and her huge eyes glisten with untamed curiosity.

I show her my wand and she praises me. My father did not. My house elf does it, instead and I do not know, no do I care whether she does it just to be nice. I show her my books.

“Look, Bonny, the book on magical creatures.” I open it and she sits on the bed besides me and I can see her huge eyes drawn to the illustrations. I search the index for dragons and I remember the pages I stole from the dragon book. When I look into my bag, though, they are gone.

I don’t understand. How did this happen?

And then I hear it. Father bellowing downstairs. Bonny’s eyes watering with terror, my breath hitching up. My mother shouting.

I don’t understand what is happening but I do not like it. As I descend the stairs I can hear it, glasses being spelled to explode at the table, father in a rage. Mother is yelling at him and there it is.

“I’m going to leave you!”

I’ve heard it again. I do not know if it’s true but it feels me with indescribable fear.

“Go on, leave!” He yells back.

I am a coward, I tremble and shake and Bonny is behind me, asking in her tiny, minuscule voice whether I would like her to apparate me away, in the garden perhaps. But I say nothing. Instead, fearful as I am, I appear in front of my parents and look at them owlishly. He watches me with cold-cold eyes.

“Here he is, your darling son!”

I don’t understand. Why is he like this, looking at me like I’m one of the goblins from Gringgots? Like I am something he detests?

“Your thief of a son.” He says  it bitterly.

My blood runs cold. Mother comes to me and urges me to go back. I push her hand. How does he know?

Father’s curse stings my cheek.

“Abraxas!” Mother yells. “Stop it!”

He rarely throws stinging hexes at me. He would usually just show me how cold he can be. I feel betrayed. I feel ashamed.

“Please, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, father, please!” But my pleas fall on deaf ears. Father laughs.

“Shouldn’t have done it! You should have but you should have been more careful.”

Mother is outraged. Her hand tightens on my shoulder. “Lucius, go to bed, now, sweetheart.”

Father laughs again, and then fumbling on the desk, uncovers the Great Dragon Book and with a sweep of his wand, makes it fly directly at my head. It hurts.

“Yes, Lucius, go to bed, sweetheart.” He looks at me now, really looks at me. I know my face is a mess of red streaks and pitiful snot and tears. “You shouldn’t cry, you know,” he says at last, watching me try to temper my bout of hyperventilation. “You were greedy and I had to obliviate the clerk as well as several people that got hold of the news. I don’t want your face in the morning paper before you even step foot on Hogwarts ground. You should thank me for it, son!”

I am both impressed and appalled at his gesture.

“Thank you, father. I am sorry for being a disappointment.”

Mother’s hand disappears; I hear her stepping away, nervously. I know she is pouring herself sherry or some other drink.

“What did you say?” his voice snaps all of a sudden. He’s angry now. Cold fury.

“I-I am sorry for being a disappointment, for ripping those pages from the book, for… for not getting an elm wand for… for being…” I hiccup, I choke on the words. Somehow, they refuse to get out.

And then father throws another stinging hex. I think mother left the room.

“Yes, be sorry.” Father says and I exhale as he finishes his drink. “Be very sorry for what you just said.” My eyes water. I am so alone. So alone in this.

Father rises from his chair. His hand is warm and dry on my cheek. But he looks so cold.

“I am not disappointed in you. I never was, to begin with.” He smoothes my hair and I feel tingles in the nape of my neck. He must have cast a calming charm on me because I feel better, as if I am dreaming and know this shall pass.

“Look at me,” he demands. He is deceptively collected, as usual.

“I am not disappointed that you didn’t get an elm wand or that you ripped the pages off that book. I might have done the same.” He chuckles at me and the skin around his eyes crinkles. “You should have told me you wanted it. You have your allowance money; you could have waited until Mabon, at least.”

“But…” I want to say something. I forget what.

“You’re my son. I would never be disappointed in you.”

And then I remember.

“But mother… you yelled…” I am lost for words.

He smiles, again that cat like smile, dangerous and wise at the same time.

“That’s between me and mother. When you grow to be a man, you’ll understand.”

I want to believe him. I really do.

“Now, now… go to sleep and don’t fret yourself.”

But I don’t.

Mother did throw a party. It was the middle of July. The Goyles and the Crabbes, as well as the Carrows were invited. I know father hates them but he says they were invited to keep an eye on them. I don’t k now what he plans but mother is very unhappy about it. She spent most of the month silent in the tea room ignoring father. He seems used to it.

If I were to tell the truth, I prefer when they fight and yell. This silence makes me feel ill.

Goyle is as unmannered as usual. I leave him and Crabbe to gorge themselves on the biscuits and muffins and find the Blacks. Cissy is actually happy for me.

Andromeda is to be a second year and Bella in her fourth. Behind Andy, I see a little boy, hiding from me but still watching me avidly.

“This is my cousin, Sirius.”

A dark haired six year old looks at me with huge, watery eyes. I greet him but he’s as well mannered as the Goyles apparently.

“Yes, Sirius. Good boy!” Bella shouts and kicks him in the shin but to my surprise, the boy hits her back.

“Good dog!” She barks at him and pulls out her tongue. Andy gives her a reproving look and shelters her cousin from her sister.

Cissy grabs my hand and she is smiling at me. She is more enthusiastic than I am.

“You have to show me everything,” she says and I am glad for it but Bella trips me as I try to move forward.

“Ooohh…” she coos in that mocking voice of hers I came to detest. “Lucy and Cissy, sitting in a tree…”

“Enough, Bella! Just because you’re older, you don’t…” But Bella smacks her hard on the head.

“I don’t what? What? You muggle lover, you!” Andy says something in protest but it is useless. Bella is a bully and she stops only when she wants.

“Bella, I’ll tell mommy.” Cissy intervenes but her voice is too weak.

“Bella, please, be civil.” I try to put an end to it and behave maturely as I was taught but nothing deters Bellatrix at this point.

She just laughed and looked at me as if she knew something and I did not.

“Is that something dear daddy would say to you, boy?” Mockingly.

I ignore her completely. She has no idea. No idea whatsoever what my father tells me. Things she wouldn’t understand. Things she cannot understand. About blood pride and what a Malfoy should be. She has no idea he criticizes the Blacks about Bellatrix.

She doesn’t know that father always points to her as a bad example of what a pureblood should be. But then again, father criticizes all purebloods. The Crabbes and the Goyles and the Carrows and the Notts. We Malfoys are alone against the world. But I don’t believe that. I have friends, I wish to tell him but whenever I start explaining myself, he laughs and says that friendships fade. 

I shiver at the thought.

“Come, Cissy, I urge.” I want to show her everything. My books, my robes, my wand, my new potions supplies. She sweeps a hand in her pale hair as she examines each and every one of them.

She takes my wand and makes sweeping motions with it.

“What’s this?”

She saw the book of dragons and I cringe at the memory. I barely opened that book since father threw it at me. I tell her as she opens it, struck by curiosity.

“We don’t have this at home, Lu,” she says as if the Blacks were supposed to have every new expensive tome that happened to appear. She’s attracted to it as I was on that day but the fascination is deceptive. I wish to forget what happened that night.

“Take it, it’s yours.” The words come out before I think them.

She looks at me deeply, the shade of blue so similar to mine. We are so alike, Bella jokes, we could be brother and sister. But we are not. I know better. Cissy is closer to me than she is with her sister. Or Andy. 

“Thank you, Lu.” Her eyes twinkle, I know she is used to get what she wants. I know I am too. I wish to tell her so many things. That we don’t always get what we want and sometimes, when we get those things, something inside us turns bitter. I am actually glad to give that book away.

She kisses my cheek and hugs me. Then Bella bursts in and shouts at the top of her lungs.

“Cissy and Lucy! Mrs. Malfoy!” Bella screams and my ears are hurting.

Cissy tries to quiet her down. She pleads with her. “Your boy is being absolutely inappropriate!” She laughs maniacally.

“No he’s not!” Cissy retorts.

Why cannot I defend myself?

 “Oh, and… Lucy, you might want to join the party. Your daddy wants a word with you. Says you should make nice with the Goyles and the Crabbes. Be a good boy and all that tripe.”

Her crooked wand is pointed directly at me and because I am a coward, I obey and leave Cissy to the mercy of her sister. When I look back, Bella is trying to steal the book from her arms but Cissy slaps her.

“You little maggot!”

I am a coward. I am sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yes, Bella is batshit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!  
> If you have any suggestions/questions/complaints, please let me know! ;^)


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